Stronger Arms
by Nahaliel
Summary: Peter wishes he could protect Neal. From anything likely to hurt him; from everything wrong out there. And even more so now. Neal whump. Angst.
1. Week 12

**_Hello there... I have decided to finally give in to writing this story. Angst, h/c, fatherly Peter and crayon masterpieces ensue... Happy reading._**

**_Week 12_**

* * *

They have come quite a ways in the past few months. It hadn't always been easy, and most definitely still was not. There are days Peter feels that banging his head against a wall might truly ease the frustration and still ever-present disbelief. El is overjoyed, though there's no denying she had had the same reaction as Peter that very first day. It had been quite a shock-chaos really—the first time they'd caught a glimpse of those big, watery blue eyes in that little, little face.

Peter stares at the little boy spread out on his living room floor. There are crayons splayed across the carpet, and sheets of paper covering every inch of the floor. El had given the little guy a whole stack from the printer. He's lying on his stomach, tongue sticking out as his little hand glides expertly across the paper. Peter is still amazed. Watching Neal draw had always been mesmerizing, quite beautiful actually. It is even more so, now that his CI has somehow been reduced to the size of an average 3 year old.

"Petew?" Despite him, a smile creeps across the agent's lips at the sound of the little voice, consonants and vowels all mixed together in an adorable jumble.

"Yes, Neal?" Neal puts down the crayon, and sits up Indian style, grabbing his little sock clad feet.

"Wet's pway outside?" He cocks his head to the side, brown curls spilling over his forehead and into his eyes. Peter chuckles fondly and extends a hand.

"Shoes and jacket first, okay?" Neal nods vigorously and lets Peter's giant hand encompass his now very tiny one.

Peter barely manages to get Neal to stay still long enough to get his shoes and jacket on. Satchmo's trotting around them barking happily, and Neal erupts in a giggle fit each time the dog laps at his face. The little boy is shivering with excitement at the prospect of playing outside. Peter closes the last button of the blue jacket El bought yesterday and Neal squirms out of his hold and darts into the backyard, Satchmo at his heels. He watches Neal play from the window. He doesn't play with the green soccer ball they bought him, or the blue tricycle. He stands on his tiptoes under the maple tree at the far corner of the yard, trying to reach the big brown and orange leaves.

Peter is engrossed in a case file spread out on the kitchen table when he feels a small tug on his pant leg. The sight he's met with freezes his blood in his veins.

* * *

"Neal!" Peter kneels down in front of the little boy, cupping his head in his own large hands. There's blood smeared down the left side of his face and an ugly bump forming just under his hairline.

"What happened?" It comes out much harsher than intended and Neal cringes the slightest bit.

"Falled down…" Neal mumbles in a weak voice, big blue eyes roaming.

Peter draws in a calming breath and lifts Neal up, settling him on the counter by the sink. Wetting a wash cloth, he gently wipes away the blood to get a clearer look at the damage.

There's deep gash on Neal's forheadd, that's continuing to swell and is still bleeding. _Head wounds bleed a lot, head wounds bleed a lot_… He repeats over and over, hoping to calm his racing heart.

"Petew?" Neal asks quietly. "Hu'wts…"

Peter winces and bends down to level with Neal's face. His pupils are large, the left blown slightly wider than the right.

"El?" He calls, trying not to sound panicked. He knows he's failed miserably when her quickened footsteps sound on the stairs and she's in the kitchen a second later. She doesn't even try to muffle the gasp that escapes her lips.

"Neal, baby! What happened?" she cries, gently cupping his little face in her hands. He blinks sluggishly up at her and Peter's concern ratchets up another notch.

"Hospital," El mouths, and Peter nods curtly.

"Okay, buddy, we're going to go see somebody who will get you fixed up in no time." Peter gathers Neal against his shoulder. The fact that Neal doesn't even protest, even though he knows very well where they're going twists Peter's lungs into an anxious knot. They're out the door in five minutes.

Neal hasn't said a word or moved through it all. Peter's heart is threatening to choke him because Neal is always babbling and giggling, so he gently shifts the little boy so that he's cradling his small head in the crook of his arm to get a better look.

"Neal? You okay, kiddo?"

Neal's eyes slowly roll up towards the general region of Peter's face but can't seem to stay focused on it. His little body has gone all floppy and his head rolls against Peter's arm.

Peter drives every place they go. But right now, he can't let go of the little boy, irrationally scared to death of what could happen should he let him go. Peter slides into the back seat with Neal still boneless against his chest and El pulls out towards the hospital, much faster than she should. Neal eyes flutter and he blinks agonizingly slowly up at Peter.

"Don't fall asleep, kiddo, okay?"

He looks like he's trying hard to comply, but his eyelids seem so heavy and keep sliding shut over his blue irises.

"Da—ddy…" Neal moans. It' a quiet, painfully sad whimper and Peter holds him closer.

"Shhh. It's okay, Daddy's here," he whispers. A tear slides down El's cheek.

* * *

"Such symptoms are quite normal for a level 2 concussion. He'll be just fine," the doctor reassures them once they're all seated in an exam room, Neal in Peter's lap. Normally, El is the one he clings to for comfort, but right now, he has Peter's shirt bunched up in his little fist and his face pressed into his broad chest, with no intentions of letting go.

Despite the doctor's logical and medical explanations, El is still worrying her bottom lip and Peter's eyes flick down to check on Neal every few seconds. He's limp and quiet, leaning heavily against Peter.

"Wake him up every two hours, ask him a few questions about himself, about you. If he complains of a headache, or is vomiting, bring him back in," the man smiles reassuringly at the Burkes and bends to check the stitches once more. Neal stayed alarmingly pliant through all five of them, weary blue eyes locked on Peter's as he held his tiny hand in his.

He whimpers restlessly as Peter stands but quiets when the agent whispers softly in his ear. He holds Neal against his chest with one arm, cupping his head against his own shoulder with the other hand like he would an infant. Neal sighs softly, a warm puff of breath brushing against Peter's neck.

The trip home is uneventful. El takes the wheel again as Peter resumes his position in the backseat with Neal. She drives slowly this time. Neal falls asleep during the drive and Peter carries him up to his and El's bedroom. This won't be the first time the little boy has slept between them.

* * *

Peter doesn't sleep that night. He's tired, and his eyes hurt, but he's wide awake. His heart still pounds painfully when he thinks back to the tug on his pant leg, and discovering Neal's little face, covered in blood. Adult Neal had had a few concussions _Peter_ had to deal with afterwards but this is different. Little Neal lacks the perfect emotional and physical control the Caffrey he knows possesses. There had been no theatrics, no trying to hide the fact that something was wrong. The vacant eyes and lethargy had scared Peter. Scared him to death. He knows he can't protect Neal from everything. But god, he wishes he could.

A glance at the clock tells him it's been a little over two hours since he last woke Neal up. He rolls over to face El's side of the bed. She has her back to him, and her chest rises and falls in a deep and peaceful cadence. Neal lays on his back in between the two of them, one little hand curled into a fist by his right ear, and the other thumb between his slightly parted lips. Peter watches his little chest move as he breathes slowly. In and out, in and out. It's a comforting rhythm. He knows he'll really never be able to conceive that this little, _baby_ boy lying between him and his wife was his CI just a few months ago.

He reaches out and gently pulls Neal's thumb from his mouth.

"Wake up, kiddo…" he whispers. Neal snuffles and rubs his eyes with his little fists. Then he's awake, staring sleepily up at Peter with those blue, blue eyes.

"Hey kiddo… You know the drill by now. Can you tell me your name?"

Neal sucks on his bottom lip before answering his first name, the "L" at the end adorably deformed into a "W".

"That's good, buddy. Now, who am I?"

"Daddy," Neal says through a soft yawn and Peter stills, heart thudding in his chest. Should he call the doctor? Is Neal delirious?

"What's my real name, Neal?" Peter breathes.

"Petew, silly…" Neal mumbles, then adds, "Sleepy. Goodnight, Daddy." He wriggles closer to Peter, sticking his thumb back in his mouth and curling his little fist around the fabric of the agent's pajama top, and falls asleep almost instantly.

Peter stares dumbly at the wall in front of for a few seconds. Then he laughs quietly, and he bows his head and gently kisses the top of Neal's soft curls.

"Goodnight, baby boy."

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Week 14

**_Hello. So, I have decided to continue this as a series of disconnected one shots, most likely not in chronological order. Thank you for the feedback on the first chapter. Happy reading._**

**_Week 14_**

* * *

"Petew?"

The little voice comes from somewhere by his legs. There's a tug on the covers, then on his pajama pants. Peter grumbles. It's only 5:54 am. On a Saturday. He buries his face deeper into his pillow. _Right, Peter, that's going to get him to leave. _Suddenly, cold air brushes across his neck and left arm and he shivers slightly. A small, warm little entity wriggles under the covers and onto his chest. Peter groans and blearily looks up at the toddler sitting on top of him.

Neal's hair is sticking up in every direction; he smiles and stares down at Peter with those big blue eyes. He's sucking on the sleeve of his Spiderman pajamas.

"Yes, Neal?" Peter mumbles sleepily, absently dragging a hand out from under the warmth of the covers to smooth down Neal's wayward curls.

"Wanna have bweakfast?" he asks, splaying the tiny fingers of one hand across Peter's chest to keep his balance.

El mumbles something and rolls over to face them.

"Neal? You okay, sweetie?" she asks sleepily, stifling a yawn.

"I'm hungry."

"Okay, down we go," Peter grunts as he pulls himself up. Neal giggles as the agent sweeps him up and drapes him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"What do you want for breakfast, kiddo?" Peter sets Neal on the floor once they're in the kitchen, and peers into the fridge.

"Pan—t'akes!" Neal exclaims. Satchmo trots into the kitchen at the sound and slobbers all over the toddler's little face, nearly knocking him over.

Though it's still much too early to be up and about on a Saturday morning, Peter smiles as he gathers the ingredients for pancake batter, and Neal's soft laughter and happy babbling fill the kitchen.

* * *

Peter is amazed-shocked, really, that the little tyke ever graceful Neal Caffrey has been reduced to has managed to get maple syrup everywhere, except in his mouth. The two Mickey Mouse pancakes are gone from his plate though, and his sippy-cup of milk is half empty. Peter's pleased with that; the kid doesn't eat much.

Neal notices Peter watching him and flashes him quite an adorable smile that tugs at something deep in the agent's chest. He clears his throat and stands to retrieve the sticky kid, before he revarnishes the entire table with syrup.

Neal remembers little from adulthood. Vaguely Caffrey like mannerisms appear sometimes, when he's scared or trying to be sneaky, but other than that, Neal is now, in body and spirit, one's average toddler. He remembers Peter, and El and Mozzie. He even remembers Jones and Diana. Peter and El could find no other solution than take Neal in with them. The first couple of weeks were insanely tiring. Adult Neal had been one hell of a handful for a 31 year old. 3 year old Neal was a whole other story. They'd fallen into routine after a while, though, and when they realized Neal wasn't changing back anytime soon, surprisingly, they got used to it. Peter would never admit how much he'd got attached to adult Neal. Little Neal amplified those feelings tenfold. Elizabeth had caught him once, late at night, sitting in the rocking chair in the guest room they'd changed to Neal's room. She'd waited outside the door, listened as Neal's cries quieted to soft hiccups, as Peter rocked him back and forth and whispered softly to him.

El makes her way down the stairs, fully clothed and bringing a cloud of flowery perfume with her, as Peter is finishing cleaning Neal up at the kitchen sink.

"Okay, boys, I'm off to work, I'll be back soon before dinner. The event won't last too long." She bends down and gives Neal a soft kiss on the cheek, then places one on Peter's lips. Neal holds out his arms and El's heart melts, as it does at least once a day now, and lifts the little boy up. She brushes his curls away from his forehead, revealing the healing scar, still pink and raised, from his tumble, a couple weeks prior.

"How's that head of yours, baby?"

"Vewy good, Lisbef."

"Okay, buddy," she sets Neal back down and heads to the door, "See you tonight. Behave yourselves."

Neal giggles excitedly as she shuts the door and grabs Peter's fingers in his little fist, pulling the man into the living room.

"Wet's pway, cops and w'obbers!"

* * *

When Elizabeth gets home she's greeted with silence. The hallway is lit only by the orange street lamplight shining in through the windows that line each side of the front door. She toes out of her heels and winces as she steps down onto the hardwood floor. The kitchen is empty, the upstairs floor is dark, so she pads into the dimly lit living room. Soft light from the lamp next to the couch pools onto the floor and sends shadows dancing into the corners. The TV is on, the loud roar of a baseball game muted by the remote that hangs from Peter's fingers. He's stretched out on the couch, snoring quietly, his left hand dangling off the edge. Neal is sprawled out on top of Peter, looking utterly exhausted but content, cheeks pink from having played all day long, his little lips hanging partly open.

El's heart warms at the sight. Her boys. A small part of her is grateful for this odd gift of nature; maybe Neal getting to start over is just what he needs.

Peter jerks slightly and his eyes come open. Neal snuffles, then buries face back in Peter's shirt. The agent sleepily acknowledges his wife.

"Hey, hun, how was your day?" he whispers.

"Oh, same old, fussy brides, a few tears, but it all ended well," she smiles fondly down at him and Neal, "Do you want to try to get him to bed?"

Peter nods and slowly sits, bracing the little boy against his chest with one strong arm. Neal's little fist curls around the fabric of Peter's shirt. El bites her lip and wonders why they never talked about having kids.

They climb the stairs slowly, El behind, hand hovering over Neal's little head. Peter gently deposits the toddler under his Thomas the Train covers. El waits in the doorway. Her heart twist a little as she watches Peter rest his big hand on Neal's head and let it linger there for a few seconds.

"Sleep well, baby boy," he whispers so quietly, she almost doesn't hear it.

Peter follows her out of the bedroom and into theirs. They change into their pajamas and climb into bed in silence. El rolls to face Peter propping herself up on one elbow and studies his face. He's quiet and worried, brow creased ever so slightly between the eyebrows. She knows that look well. It's a Neal triggered look. She takes his hand and kisses his knuckles one by one; he closes his eyes at the touch.

"What's wrong?" she says, keeping her voice low; they leave their door open now that Neal sleeps down the hall, just in case.

Peter takes a deep breath before answering. "Can we do this? I mean… Will we be good for him? Will he be okay?"

El's heart aches for her husband and she reaches out to cup his cheek.

"Of course we can do this, Peter. And of course he'll be fine."

Peter sighs. He wants to believe her.

"I don't, El. How can you be sure? We've never done this. He needs the best…" _He needs to be loved, cared for, ached for._

"Peter. He will get all that." Her blue eyes lock onto his, full of trust and love. "He has you."

* * *

_TBC_


	3. Day 1

_**Thank you so much for all the support, guys. It's nice to hear you're all enjoying this. Reminder: these one shots are not in chronological order. On with chapter 3... Happy reading.**_

_**Day 1**_

* * *

_That_ day had started out like most days. Normal. Well, the days including one rather extravagant ex-con had become Peter's _normal_. It was a bright Saturday morning, the clear, blue sky offering them a false sense of calm. El had somehow convinced Peter—though he still has no idea how—to let Neal tag along to the event they'd been invited to. Peter knows it's a bad idea.

And Neal is late.

The Burkes climb the stairs hand in hand, Peter half-heartedly grumbling about lazy CIs and puppy dog eyes; El just shakes her head and smiles. Peter reaches up, huffs an exasperated sigh before rapping his knuckles against the polished white wood. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. That's not normal for Neal, but then again, he's _Neal_.

"Neal?" Peter calls. He's not happy.

El steps in. "Neal, it's El. We're running a little late; could you open up?"

Still no answer.

Peter reaches down and jiggles the brass knob. He's really hoping the door doesn't—swing open effortlessly, revealing the tasteful décor of Neal's living room. The door was unlocked, _again_—Peter is _this _close to killing his CI now.

"Neal?" More urgently this time. His hand automatically falls to his hip, where his holster should be, but his fingers curl around nothing but thin air.

A soft, unfamiliar wail comes from the bedroom and Peter feels El's hand wrap tightly around his left biceps. Together, they make their way towards the sound; he instinctively pushes her behind him. El's sharp intake of breath slices through the air before Peter can even register what he's seeing.

A little boy, barely over the age of three, sits in a tangled bundle of blankets in the center of the bed, blue eyes wide and watery, bottom lip quivering. He looks terrified.

"Who are _you_?" Peter breathes, and the little boy lets out a sob, the brimming tears overflowing and tracking clear streaks down his pale cheeks.

"Hi, sweetie, my name is El." Peter widens his eyes at her, shaking his head incredulously as she sits down on the edge of the bed.

_Where the hell is Neal?_ _Where the hell is Neal?_ _Where the hell is Neal?_ His mind is reeling from the sheer absurdity of the situation-_there's a toddler in Neal's apartment_, and the very odd thought beginning to form in his scattered brain.

This trembling, little boy reminds him of Neal. The brown locks falling over the pale forehead, those unforgettable, blue, blue eyes. The little boy sucks in a shuddering gasp.

"It's me, Petew, Lisbef! It's Neaw..." For a second Peter feels like laughing out loud, because the kid just called himself Nealand knows his and El's names. That's not possible. He doesn't want it to be possible.

"No." Peter says flatly, turning away and running a shaking hand through his hair. He can hear hiccupping and sniffling behind him and El whispering softly.

"Okay, _Neal_," Peter begins curtly. He knows he should be gentler; he's talking to a three year old after all. _A __three year old claiming to be his CI_. "Where do you work?"

The little boy wrinkles his nose. Then his face falls, quivering bottom lip returning full force and Peter almost feels bad.

"I... I don't wemembew!" The toddler wails. "But I know you an' Lisbef an' Sa-satchmo an' Jones, an' Diana an' Mawzzie!" He drags out in one breath, sucking in a big gasp at the end. El turns to Peter, eyes wide and wet. Of course she'd believe him. Peter is suddenly _afraid_.

El gathers the boy up, his tiny feet dangle in the air for a minute and Peter realizes he's wearing a men's sized shirt. It's so big the hem of it is tangled around his little legs and feet and dripping off one tiny shoulder. As if he'd just… _shrunk_ during the night. Peter grinds his teeth.

"Fine," he huffs under his breath and tears the tangled bunch of covers off of the mattress. A pair of silk pajama pants slides to the floor, freed from the mass of sheets, and there's a dull thud.

At his feet on the floor, lies Neal's tracking anklet, green light still flashing as if it had never left its owner's ankle.

"_Neal_." Peter breathes and turns back to his wife. She's smiling, though it's a bit shaky around the edges, and Neal has his little arms around her neck.

"Wemembew me, Petew?"

One of Peter's firmly taught heart strings snaps, just like that. He reaches out a trembling hand and places it on top of Neal's soft curls. His palm nearly encompasses the entire back of the boy's little head.

"Stop crying, okay, kiddo?" Peter whispers, not trusting his voice, "We'll figure this out."

* * *

From the little information Peter has managed to get out of Neal, he knows the boy's just as confused as he is, and all he remembers is going to sleep and waking up like _this_.

El is in the kitchen making cookies. Why is she doing that? And she's bought the kid Spiderman pajamas_. Spiderman_ _pajamas_. Maybe it was his frayed nerves or the frankly ridiculous nature of their _situation_, but standing in the middle of the kid's aisle in some Wal-Mart store, Peter burst out laughing as El produced the red and blue onesie. The worst part, though, was the look of genuine joy on Neal's face. _Neal Caffrey_ in Spiderman pajamas. Peter had been pretty sure his CI would never even have let his own kids near such tasteless attire. Right now, though, he doubts Neal remembers much of his penchant for fedoras and silk ties. Bright red and blue footed pajamas seem to leave him quite content.

Peter is staring again.

And it's bothering Neal because the toddler is fidgeting.

How on earth do you explain such a chaotic whirlwind of emotions to a toddler; let alone when that toddler happens to be the source of it all? Peter shifts uncomfortably on the couch and Neal observes quietly. Finally he rests his elbows on his knees and settles.

"This is a lot to take in, Neal. That's all. I just..."

The sleeve of the Spiderman pajamas has traveled to Neal's mouth. He sucks on it, watching Peter intently, like he's waiting for him to continue. There's so much of the Neal Peter knows behind those big, blue eyes. Yet he's so far away. _Years_ away from him.

"Until we figure this out, you're going to stay with us. We'll do our best to make it normal. Okay?"

Neal doesn't say anything, and for a second the man thinks he's finally going to lose it. But then the toddler leans forward and splays his tiny hands on the carpet to push himself to his feet. Peter_ stares_ and maybe his jaw drops open a little, because it's so _adorable__,_ and he's sure another one of those heart strings has just snapped.  
Neal pads over to him and holds his little arms out. Peter gently lifts the little boy up onto his lap, ignoring the way his heart clenches in his chest, and watches him snuggle close. Then Neal says something, very quietly into Peter's shirt.

"I knew I wemebew'd you for a weason, Petew..."

Yes. Definitely snapped.

Peter is surprised by how painful it is.

* * *

_TBC_


	4. Week 2

_**Finally, chapter 4 is up. Been having some writer's block lately; grrr. Thanks for all the follows, favorites and lovely reviews guys; it means a lot. Happy reading.**_

_**Week 2**_

* * *

The first time Neal is sick, Peter worries himself ragged. He knows he shouldn't, because toddlers get sick all the time. But Neal is _his_ toddler, and it's the first time he's seen him so miserable. As a little guy, at least. Peter has seen _adult_ Neal in some bad ways but this-this is different.

It's Peter's day off and at 7 am, he's woken by a little someone landing softly on the covers next to him. He's not even surprised anymore; it's the way every day has started since _then_. It's only been two weeks. And Peter is sure they've been the most overwhelming two weeks he's ever lived so far. Little Neal is quite unpredictable. Even more so than adult Neal, which is frankly terrifying for Peter.

And then there are those tiny moments when Neal holds out his little arms and Peter picks him up, and just holds him close. Those moments where time stops, all other things just freeze around them, and the only movement left is Peter rocking Neal gently, back and forth, back and forth. He's grown to love this pint sized version of Neal…So much. So much it hurts. Can a life really be altered to that point in the space of two weeks? Peter knows the answer. He just doesn't know how it's possible.

This morning's wakeup call is far calmer and far quieter than the others. Peter doesn't feel the little boy wriggle under the covers, or start to bounce up and down between him and El. Instead, he feels a little thump on his chest, and opens his eyes to find Neal curled up on top of him, little cheek pressed into the covers.

"Hey, buddy," Peter says, pulling himself up against the headboard. Neal doesn't move, just lets himself slide into Peter's lap. Peter chuckles fondly and lifts Neal into his arms. The little boy is extremely pliant, and a bit floppy, too.

"You excited to go to the zoo today?" Peter knows _he_ is. Neal just hums and buries his face in Peter's shirt.

"Okay… Let's go have some breakfast." Peter throws back the covers and carries Neal downstairs.

* * *

Peter watches Neal curiously. The toddler sits at the kitchen table, little feet dangling off the edge of the chair. Something is really off this morning. First of all, Neal isn't swinging his legs; they just hang off the edge of the chair. He's kind of drooping too, nowhere near his usual, bouncy little self.

"You okay, kiddo?"

Neal lets his fork drop from his little fingers; his pancakes are still mostly untouched. He looks up at Peter with those big, blue eyes and all of a sudden, his bottom lip quivers. Peter stills for a moment, having no idea what's going on, but then one, big tear tracks its way down Neal's pale cheek and he starts to cry. To sob, actually.

Peter's rooted to the spot for a few seconds, before moving to gather the hiccupping toddler in his arms. Neal presses his face into Peter's neck and keeps crying as the agent rocks him gently. His face feels quite warm, Peter realizes. He draws Neal away from him and places a hand on his forehead.

"Aw, buddy…" Peter murmurs, "I think you have a fever." It doesn't feel too high. Yet. Neal sniffles and rubs his eyes with his little fists.

"No, I'm o'tay, Petew, we have to go see da animaws…"

"We're going to have to take a rain check, I think."

Neal cries harder. Peter resumes his rocking, shushing him gently as he makes his way to the living room. He gathers the throw from the couch and drapes it over Neal.

"El?" Peter climbs the stairs again. Neal has quieted against his shoulder and stuck a little thumb in his mouth.

She's in their bathroom, getting ready for work. "Yes? I have to leave soon, what time are you planning on going to the zoo?" She stares at the sight of Peter holding Neal close, the couch throw draped over the two of them and skimming the floor.

"What's wrong?"

_No zoo today_, Peter mouths, _Sick._

El makes an _aw_ sound and begins rummaging through the drawers under the sinks for…a child's digital thermometer. Why she already has one of those handy is beyond Peter. God, she's amazing.

"Hey, baby," she whispers softly to Neal, "Could you turn your head towards me?" Neal whines at having the thermometer stuck in his ear. _99__.1_. The reading isn't worrisome in itself, but Peter frowns.

"That's not too bad yet. Keep an eye on it. If it gets higher than 100 call me, and we'll go see the pediatrician."

Peter looks confused for a second, then completely panicked and El has to cover up a smile.

"Do you have to go to work?" He knows he sounds desperate, and even a tad whiny.

"It's okay, hon, he'll be fine."

Neal whimpers and holds out an arm to Elizabeth. She lifts him out of Peter's arms and cradles him close, whispering soft words in his ear. Peter helps El gather the rest of her stuff while she holds Neal. He's blinking sluggishly, and soon his eyes slide shut; El gets him settled in the middle of their bed. Then she places a swift kiss on Peter's lips and is gone, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the room, staring at the sleeping toddler, who looks so tiny and vulnerable in the middle of their bed.

He vaguely wonders what adult Neal might have done in this situation. He doesn't come up with an answer.

* * *

When lunchtime rolls around, Neal is still curled up in Peter and El's bed, awake this time, glumly watching a Scooby Doo episode through half lidded eyes. Peter sits next to him, on top of the comforter, a case file open in his lap. He gets about thirty more minutes worth of concentration until he hears Neal shuffling next to him. He waits, reads the same sentence over again twice, then a little hand splays itself across the page and he's looking down into Neal's blue eyes. His face is pale, little cheeks flushed with a tint of red and his brown curls hang limply over his forehead, damp with sweat.

"What awe you doing, Petew?"

"Reading a case file."

Neal looks puzzled for a second, then nods. "I don't like case f-files…"

Peter laughs. That was definitely true. Ironically, he happens to be reading a mortgage fraud case today; Peter is sure there wasn't anything adult Neal hated more than mortgage fraud cases. Except maybe Spiderman pajamas.

"Are you getting hungry, kiddo?"

Neal mumbles a soft _no__, _and lets his head thump against Peter's shoulder. The agent smiles fondly and wraps his arm around the little guy. The two sit in silence for a while, Peter concentrating on the rise and fall of Neal's chest at his side.

The calm is short lived, however, because all of sudden Peter is aware of the unnatural heat radiating off the little boy through his shirt.

"You feel kind of warm, buddy," Peter says. Neal looks like he's just about to fall asleep, so Peter gathers him in the blanket and carries him into the bathroom. He carefully sets Neal on the countertop and rummages through the drawers for the thermometer.

"Okay, I know you don't like this, but I need to see how high that fever of yours is."

Neal whimpers, but doesn't protest further as Peter takes his temperature again.102.2. He curses, quite loudly, and Neal starts to wail suddenly, shuddering and sniffling. Peter feels a bit like crying too, because he doesn't know how the kid's fever got so high, and he's juggling Neal against one shoulder, his phone between his ear and the other, and trying to put his shoes on that same time.

"Is everything okay?" El asks as soon as she picks and her voice is so, so reassuring and for a second he can't speak past the lump in his throat.

"I don't know how it got that high, I mean one minute he seemed okay—it just climbed so fast—"

"Peter. It's okay, just take him to Dr. Jordan and I'll meet you there. How high is his fever?"

"102.2," Peter says, buckling the still wailing toddler into his car seat and draping the blanket over him. El doesn't say anything for a few seconds.

"Okay. Okay. Just—I'll meet you there. Love you, hon."

Peter pulls out onto the street, and glances at Neal through the rear view mirror. He's quieted and looks like he's dozed off, his little face pink and sweaty.

"I love you too, El."

* * *

At 6 pm, they're back where they started the day, all three in the master bedroom. Peter is finishing up the case file that's still spread out across the comforter, while El sits up against the headboard, gently rocking Neal in her arms. He's fallen into an exhausted sleep, his head resting in the crook of her arm, little mouth hanging slightly open.

After a couple hours at the pediatric ward of the urgent care clinic and a few doses of antibiotics, they'd all piled back into the car, emotionally drained—well, for Peter at least, and driven back home. Dr. Jordan had informed them with a smile and a lollipop for Neal that the toddler had caught a small virus that should clear up in a few days.

Peter sighs as he finally closes the case file and stretches out his stiff limbs. What a day. He's sure of it now; parenting is one of the biggest challenges he's ever faced. Not becoming an FBI agent; not chasing and catching Neal Caffrey. _Parenting_. It's the one word he'd thought would never be part of his and El's vocabulary. And yet, here they are. Neal whimpers in his sleep and Peter stills, watching. El cups his little cheek with a soft hand and presses her lips to the top of his soft curls; Neal quiets almost instantly, the little arm draped over hers going limp again.

Elizabeth... He'd never given it much thought until now. That image of her had been tucked away in a safe, quiet place at the back of his mind. She's a beautiful mother.

* * *

_TBC_


	5. Week 20

_**This one is kind of sad in the beginning. But it works out in the end. Angst, h/c, some fluff. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**Week 20**_

* * *

Elizabeth Burke breaks on extremely rare occasions. The last time, was six years ago, when her mother died. It had been so sudden, it took one tear for all the walls to come crashing down, and the next time she'd been able to form a coherent thought, she realized she was sitting in Peter's lap, pinned to his chest with his strong arms wrapped all the way around her.

"It's okay," he'd repeated, even though it wasn't, twice, ten times, one hundred times, lips pressed to the top of her head.

Elizabeth Burke breaks on rare occasions. Today is one of those occasions.

The call comes at 5:07 pm. It's dark outside already, the kitchen light is on and she stands at the sink washing dishes, to the sound of Neal's soft babbling behind her.

The phone rings.

"Phone, Lisbef', phone…" Neal calls out and she smiles at him before retrieving the phone and wedging it between her ear and shoulder.

"Elizabeth speaking," she answers cheerfully, drying her hands on a dish towel.

"Elizabeth. This is Clinton."

She knows that tone of voice. She's heard it before, but never been on the receiving end of it. Thank god.

"Hi, Clinton. What can I do for you?"

There's a pause, and El's fingers curl tightly around the phone.

"It's Peter. He—uh… He was shot, Elizabeth. He's in surgery right now. You should come."

"Where?" She manages to utter the one word, it's barely above a whisper.

"Presbytarian."

"Thank you. I'll be right there." Jones offers a few words of reassurance. They're useless.

Somehow the phone slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor, batteries popping out and rolling along the floorboards and under the kitchen table.

"You dwopped it, Lisbef. Uh oh. Bwoken." She doesn't hear Neal. She has his back to him.

Jones had given little information. _He was shot_. Peter. Her Peter. Her husband. Her life.

The tear slides down her cheek and into the soapy dishwater in front of her, and soon her shoulders are shaking, and she can't stop crying. She never breaks. But for him…

"Lisbef?" She still doesn't register the little, scared voice that comes from behind her.

Peter has to be okay. He'll pull through. He has before. She needs to get to the hospital. Be by his side.

"L-lisbef?" It's a shaky whine.

"Mommy!" El turns sharply at the word, staring down at the toddler through her tears. Neal claps a little hand over his mouth, as if he's just said something awful, and peers up at her, blue eyes wide and glistening.

"W-what is it, baby?" she says, very quietly and very slowly. Her voice shakes.

"What's w'ong…?" Neal's bottom lip quivers.

A sob escapes her lips and she slowly lowers herself to sit on the kitchen floor. The tears flow freely now. Why hide from such an innocent, beautiful little being? Neal slides off of his chair and pads over to where El sits, cross-legged and shoulders shaking as she cries. She looks up at him, hair falling in front of her face.

"Mommy," Neal wails and she gasps, pulling him into a tight embrace and rocking him against her chest.

"Whe'e's Daddy?" he cries into her shirt, little fist curling around the fabric at the collar.

"Neal, I need you to be a brave boy for me. Can you do that?" he nods shakily, and sticks a thumb in his mouth. "Daddy… needs us right, now."

* * *

Peter is out of surgery by the time they get to the hospital. The nurse at the front desk is kind and gentle, and it threatens to send El over the edge again. They're even allowed in to see him, though he's not conscious yet. With Neal in her arms, she slowly makes her way down to the right room. The sterile smell of everything is making her queasy and Neal whimpers against her shoulder.

Adult Neal wasn't much of a fan of hospitals either.

What does finally send her over the edge, is the sight they're met with when they step into Peter's room. The lights are turned down to a low and comfortable glow and it's eerily quiet, save for the soft beeping and whooshing of medical paraphernalia set up around the head of the bed.

Peter is bare-chested; wires seem to sprout from every inch of uncovered skin. His ribs are wrapped in thick gauze; they had to crack his chest to get the bullet out.

El feels a little hand against her cheek. It's Neal, wiping away the tears she hadn't realized were still falling.

"Awe you sure Daddy's o'tay?" he whispers and she doesn't know how to answer. They say he is. She doesn't know how that's possible. Peter doesn't look like someone who is okay, with an oxygen mask obscuring part of his pale face and all the machines surrounding him.

Neal feels this too.

He's quieted against El's shoulder and has his eyes riveted on Peter's inert form, watching the barely distinguishable rise and fall of his chest.

* * *

Peter is released from the hospital a week and a half later. El and Neal had slept by his bedside that very first night and the next morning he'd woken to a considerable amount of pain and a tiny head of brown curls asleep against his forearm.

Peter is very lucky. In a lot of pain most days, but very lucky. He's out of work for a good month and a half; simply tackling a flight stairs is an exhausting ordeal. El doesn't hover, or rather it looks like she's trying very hard not to. Sometimes he catches her staring at nothing, lost in thought. He knows what she's thinking about. He wishes it all could have been less traumatizing for her. And Neal.

Days are slow and peaceful while Peter recovers. El takes some time off of work as well, so Peter doesn't exhaust himself further while taking care of himself and an overexcited toddler alone. The thing is, Neal hasn't been acting much like his overexcited self lately. He's quiet, doesn't say much and very cooperative, which is sweet, but so un-Neal like that Peter's starting to worry.

It happens two weeks after he gets out of the hospital. Waking up to steady, eye watering pain at 2 am has been his routine for the past couple of weeks. Tonight he's startled awake, and it takes him a few minutes to realize what roused him. There's no pain, apart from the constant ache he's grown accustomed to. Then he hears it. Soft wails coming from down the hallway. Peter gingerly pulls himself out of bed and walks carefully down to Neal's room. The crying gets louder and when he sticks his head through the open doorway, he realizes the sound is coming from Neal.

The toddler is curled into an impossibly small ball in the middle of his bed. He's dreaming, little head turning restlessly against the pillow, and the little moonlight that shines in through the gap in the closed blinds catches and glints on the tears streaming down Neal's face.

"Neal," Peter whispers, slowly lowering himself down onto the bed. Neal doesn't wake and keeps crying. Peter scoops him up so that his little head rests in the crook of his arm.

"Shhh. It's okay, baby."

Neal draws in a shuddering breath and his eyes come open. "Petew?" he mumbles sleepily and rubs damp eyes with his little fists.

"You okay, buddy? Did you have a scary dream?" Peter has the sinking feeling that he knows what the dream was about.

Neal sniffles and two tears track their way down his cheeks again. "You were gone, again." Again? "Somebody hu'wted you. You didn't t'ome back."

Peter closes his eyes briefly. He had thought for a split second, as he lay in the rapidly growing puddle of his own blood, that he wasn't going to make it back. And he'd cried. For El. For the little, little boy in his arms he's come to love so much.

"I'll always come back, Neal. Okay?"

"Pw'omise?"

"I promise, baby boy."

* * *

_TBC_


	6. Week 6

_**Chapter 6 is up. Just a little fluffy piece. Thank you for all the reviews; it means so much. I'm sorry for the ones I haven't responded to. And I wish I could respond to guest reviewers; thanks for the kind words and support, guys. Happy reading.**_

_**Week 6**_

* * *

El is looking panicked.

Peter stares at her, until she finally looks up from the stack of magazines she's just rearranged six times. He quirks an eyebrow.

"Don't even try that FBI intimidation thing with me, Peter Burke."

He can't help but laugh, "Okay. Then would you willingly tell me what's got you so agitated?" She starts undoing the pile of magazines again; Peter places a hand on her arm, and she stops.

"It's my dad," she sighs, "He'll be in town tomorrow and wants to stop by." Peter looks a little confused. "I've told him a little about Neal."

"Well that's good; at least it won't be too much of a shock-"

"About our _other _Neal."

A faint smile graces Peter's lips. They do have two Neals. The one with the tiny hands and feet and precocious crayon sketching skills, and the one with silk ties, fedoras and the unnerving ability to know exactly what you're about to say. Their 3 year old version of the ex-conman is a little of both really. But wrapped into an impossibly tiny and _adorable _little being.

That might be a problem.

Mozzie had reacted… well, like Mozzie would. Neal was the same old Neal to him, and when he'd come over to "baby-sit" the toddler, Peter would usually spend the evening deflecting question like, "What's a f-for…gery?" or "How come Un'ka Mozzie knows where you keep secret, secret stuff?"

Diana and Jones had taken it surprisingly calmly. Okay, Jones still had a little trouble with those big, questioning blue eyes in such an innocent little face. Diana, on the other hand, had been unexpectedly sweet and patient with the little boy from the very beginning, playing with him in the backyard, or reading to him.

El's dad was a nice guy, and against all odds, he and Peter had just clicked. _Maybe_ it had something to do with them both being die-hard Yankees fans.

Peter will never forget the first day he met El's parents. They'd been together for two years-today, that seems like forever ago-when she turned to him and simply said, "We're going to see my parents this weekend."

He didn't have a say in the matter, even back then. Come Saturday morning, they were, as promised, making their way up to El's childhood home in upstate New York.

Her mom had soft, kind features and El's blue eyes. She reminded Peter of his own mother.

Her dad, John, had drawn him into a friendly hug, dragging him over the doorstep and into the house. They'd all started talking, and never stopped. El's parents were very caring and fond, but also trusting, they knew how to let her live her own life.

Peter still remembers the night after El's mom passed away. She'd been very sick, and it had taken a while for the initial relief of knowing she wasn't suffering anymore to ebb and for the pain to set in.

He'd found John sitting on the porch steps, staring blankly out into the front yard. He'd settled down next to the man, and they'd sat there, in silence, for a long time.

"Do you know what one of the last things she said to me was?" John spoke up first, his voice soft, emotion lingering at the end of the sentence.

"She told me to take of El. And you. That if anything ever happened, I had to make sure El didn't let you go."

Peter's still not sure how long they'd spent out there, talking about Elaine. Peter brought up his parents, for the first time in a long while. By the time, El softly called them back inside, the sun had turned the sky pink, and hidden behind the horizon.

In Peter's book, John is an amazing guy, kind, strong, understanding. He's just not sure how hard to swallow the Neal issue is really going to be.

* * *

The three of them are in the kitchen when the doorbell rings. Neal's little head bobs up from his crayon masterpiece, laid out at the table.

"That's him," El smiles nervously at Peter.

"You got the chance to explain the…situation to him a little, right?"

El smiles sheepishly at him and slips out of the room. Peter's palm is halfway to his forehead when Neal's little voice interrupts him mid-gesture.

"Who's at da door?" He asks, cocking his head to the side, brown curls bouncing.

Peter sighs; it's too late now. "C'mon with me and you'll see."

Neal gives him a suspicious look, but wriggles down from his chair and wraps his tiny hand around three of Peter's fingers. He cranes his neck to get a better look at the agent's face.

"Petew?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you have youw gwumpy face on?"

_Oh, Neal._

John's warm, deep voice fills the air as they pad into the hallway, the little boy still firmly latched onto Peter's hand.

"John," Peter greets the man warmly, and the two exchange a tight hug.

"Now who is this little fellow?" John asks, kneeling down to Neal's level. If there is any sign of shock or surprise on his face, it lasts less than a second and Peter doesn't even catch it. His eyes simply twinkle fondly.

"Don't be shy, kiddo," Peter rests his big hand on top of Neal's curls, and the little boy peers up at him, blue eyes searching. The agent gives him an encouraging wink, and is pleased to see Neal remove his thumb from his mouth and peel his limbs from around his leg.

"What's your name, little man?"

"Neaw… Who awe you?"

Peter almost tells him something about being polite when John chuckles and holds out a hand. Neal slips his tiny one into it and lets John whisk him up against his hip.

"I'm Elizabeth's dad."

Neal's little forehead creases into a frown as he tries to make the connection. Then his eyes light up and he gives him a happy smile.

"Your Lisbef's Petew!"

John's eyes crinkle around the edges as a broad grin splits his face.

* * *

Other than looking a little dumbfounded, John seems to take the story well. Peter couldn't be happier, and can't believe it went so smoothly; there are times where he's still reeling from it all.

John already loves Neal.

In fact, he's barely had time to visit with El and Peter through listening to all of the little boy's babbling and excitement.

It's only when they all settle around the dinner table that the adults finally get to catch up. They exchange about work, plans for Christmas vacation, Neal. And baseball. Which is when El tunes out, leaving the men to their rants about the season.

She notices Neal's plate is half empty, a few stray peas arranged in the form of a circle and a half-eaten fish stick lying on his place mat. Apparently finding he'd gauged all the artistic possibilities of his dinner, he's moved on to swinging his little legs in his booster seat, and softly repeating John's name over and over again, to get his attention.

El smiles at him, and puts a finger to her lips. "Wait a second, baby, he's talking."

Neal sucks on his bottom lip and his face works into a vague (adorable) pout. Oh boy.

"John? " he whines, dragging the monosyllable out as long as he can. The "J" is a little too complicated for his very tiny tongue and the word comes out more along the lines of "Dzohn?"

El's father finally turns away from his conversation with Peter and Neal cracks the sweetest, most innocent smile. Even Peter melts. But that's been happening quite a lot lately.

"I wanna tell you 'bout when Daddy took me to da zooooo!"

* * *

It's 11 pm when John finally gets ready to leave. Neal is exhausted, eyelids heavy and drooping against Peter's leg as they stand in the hallway.

John wraps El in a warm embrace, kissing her forehead.

"Your mother would be proud," he whispers into her hair, eyes glistening. El gives a shaking smile and holds on tight. They break apart and it's Peter's turn. They clap each other on the back, exchanging the promise of seeing the next Yankees game together.

"Whe'we awe you going?" Neal yawns, rubbing his eyes with a little fist. John picks the sleepy toddler up. "I won't be far. And I'll be back soon."

Neal seems satisfied and gives him a hug that makes Peter's eyes water. John places a gentle kiss on the top of Neal's soft curls and transfers him back to Peter's arms.

El sniffles quietly, as they wave and watch John's headlights get smaller and smaller. He knew children weren't one of El and Peter's priorities, and he respected that. Neal is perfect. No matter how impossible the whole thing is, John knows that blue eyed boy is a beautiful gift.

Finally, the Burkes shuffle back inside, Neal resting against Peter's broad shoulder, mouth hanging open a little. They're sure he's asleep, all of today's excitement finally getting the better of him, when he snuggles closer to Peter and mumbles sleepily, "I like having G'wampy back."

A single tear drop lands on Neal's t-shirt.

* * *

_TBC_


	7. Week 9

_**Simple one-shot. A little Neal angst while El is on a business trip. Thank you for the kind reviews and all the favorites and follows. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**Week 9**_

* * *

"I'm home," Peter calls, hurrying into the house and out of the pouring rain. He slips his drenched and dripping jacket off and hangs it on the coat rack, making a puddle on the floor. There's a bark from the living room and Satchmo comes trotting in, tail wagging happily; he instantly heads for the puddle of water on the floor and Peter gently nudges him out of the way with his knees.

Then there's a high-pitched Neal-giggle, announcing his eminent appearance, and the toddler comes running around the corner, little sock clad feet slipping and sliding on the polished wood floors.

"Dad- Petew!" he exclaims, skidding the rest of the way into Peter's knees, wrapping his arms around them and hugging tight. Peter grins and whisks Neal up against his shoulder, returning the hug. He pushes back a little, splaying tiny fingers against Peter's chest so he can get a good look at his face.

"Did you get da bad guys?" Neal asks, looking very serious.

"I sure did. Legally, of course," he adds, placing Neal back on the floor. He turns to Diana, who's calmly made her way into the hall after Neal, "Thanks for the babysitting help, Di, you're a lifesaver."

She just smiles, slipping into her coat. "My pleasure." And she means it; Peter thought he'd never see the day "babysitting" Neal was ever a pleasure for her.

"Bye, Diana..." Neal says; reaching his arms out. She bends down and hugs his little form, placing a kiss on his cheek. Their new relationship is pretty amazing to watch.

When the door closes behind her, Peter gently grasps Neal's hand just as he's bolting back to the living room and pulls him back, kneeling down in front of him.

"I've got something for you, buddy," he says, grinning broadly at the way Neal's eyes light up. "Okay. Close your eyes. And _no peeking_," Neal giggles as the gentle warning tone uncovers a forgotten adult memory. Peter pulls the object from his work bag, discarded by the door, and hides it behind his back.

"Eyes open." Neal's eyes pop open on command, shining bright blue with excitement. "Right or left?"

Neal frowns slightly, little tongue sticking out in concentration. Peter's heart warms at the sight. And he thought he had a soft spot for adult Neal—the three year old version takes that feeling to a whole new level.

"Left!" Good guess. Peter smiles, and from behind his back, pulls a tiny, tot-sized gray fedora. Neal's eyes widen in awe.

"Wow..." He whispers, carefully taking it in his small hands and inspecting every inch of it, turning it over and over.

"You want to put it on?" Neal nods, brown curls bouncing. Peter helps him arrange it on his head, grasps him under the armpits and "flies" the giggling toddler to the hall mirror. Neal cocks his little head to the side, carefully inspecting his reflection.

Peter finds he is momentarily lost for words, images of adult Neal in his multiple fedoras flashing confusedly through his head. He's brought back to the here and now by his little Neal wrapping his arms around his neck.

"Thank you, Petew," he says softly, sounding impressively sincere for a three year old. "You're welcome, kiddo."

Then Neal wriggles down out of his hold and dashes into the living room calling, "You'we it!"

* * *

"Whewe's Lisbef?" Neal asks, again, at dinner time. It's become a routine; always the same question, once during dinner and twice before going to bed. And every time the innocence of it tugs at Peter's heartstrings.

"Remember, buddy, I already told you? She's on a business trip and she'll be back in a couple of days."

Neal doesn't look convinced, _again_, and fidgets in his chair; Peter studies his semi-pout. "Do you want to give her call?" Neal perks up, cracking a toothy little grin at this, and nods vigorously.

"C'mon," Peter lets him slide down out of his booster seat on his own, then, as Neal latches onto his pinkie finger, allows himself to be tugged along into the kitchen. He hoists the little boy up onto the counter by the sink and grabs the phone.

"Hi, honey," El answers cheerfully. "How's everything going?"

Neal smiles vaguely at the sound of her voice, swinging his little legs back and forth. Peter stands in front of him, phone between his ear and shoulder, and bracing Neal with one large hand against his little belly to keep any sudden movement from sending him toppling off the counter.

"Liiiisbef!" Neal drags out, reaching for the phone. Peter presses the speaker phone button and El's voice fills the kitchen for both of them to hear. It's almost like she's there. Almost.

"Hi, baby. Are you having fun with Peter?"

Neal nods happily, and Peter chuckles. "She can't see you, kiddo."

"Oh… Lots of fun. Mommy, Mommy, I got a hat!"

El's voice is a little quieter this time when she answers. "You did? Peter, you need to send me a picture."

"Look at me, buddy," Peter pulls out his cellphone, and retrieving Neal's hat pops it back on his head. "Say cheese."

Neal yelps at being blinded by the bright flash, which leaves Peter stifling a burst of laughter while wrapping an arm around Neal's tiny form to keep the cross-eyed toddler from falling off the counter.

"Peter, I love it. That's so adorable," El coos over the phone; Neal makes a face. "Mushy gushy," he mumbles, and Peter gives in, laughing heartily. Neal frowns at him, which makes Peter laugh harder, then starts to giggle too.

"I'll talk to you boys tomorrow, okay?" El says, the smile back in her own voice again.

"Alright. Bye, hon. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye, baby boy."

"I y'ove you, Lisbef…"

* * *

Nightfall brings a whole new set of problems. Maybe it's the darkness that amplifies fears; or the loneliness of it...

Things are alright during the day. The boys have their distractions; work, day care, outings... But once the day is through, the light fades, and it's time to settle down for the evening, melancholy sets in. El's absence really takes something away, leaves an empty space. For both Peter, and Neal.

The rain still hasn't stopped; it batters the roof and windows, and the bad weather has now morphed into a thunderstorm over the course of the late evening.

Another thunderous bang in the sky pulls Peter from his slumber. It's so loud, the walls seem to creak with it. He groans and rolls over, arm curling around nothing but El's empty side of the bed. He sighs into his pillow. She'll only be gone for a few days, he knows, but their bed already seems an empty and lonely place to be.

He drifts off again, as lightning cracks, and illuminates the bedroom with a flash of white light.

What seems like seconds later, he wakes with a start, as ten tiny _ice cubes _connect with his leg. He draws in a gasp at the sudden cold, and blearily opens his eyes. Neal has climbed onto the bed, wriggled under the covers and latched himself onto Peter's leg- the one where his pajama pants just happened to have rolled up to the knee- and glued his tiny, freezing little toes against the skin. He peels himself away from the limb and crawls out from under the sheets.

"Neal, buddy, what are you doing?" Peter mumbles sleepily, rolling his head to look at the clock. Its red digits are flashing, the time stuck on 12:00 am. The power's out.

Lightning flashes again, and shortly after thunder booms, louder than ever, sending Neal scrabbling back under the covers with a terrified squeak. Peter frowns, lifting the comforter to peer at the toddler, who's curled up into an impossibly tiny ball at the foot of the bed, with his little knees to his chin.

"Come here, kiddo," Peter says gently, extending a hand. Neal shrinks further under the covers.

Peter sighs. He slides his hands under Neal's arm pits and makes to drag him out from under the blankets when the toddler lets out a loud wail and struggles frantically against of his hold.

"Whoa. Hey, buddy. It's okay… What's the matter?" Neal shakes his head, and curling up into a tighter ball, whines softly. "Does the thunder scare you?"

It takes a few seconds, but finally the little boy offers Peter a nod. The loud noise must have triggered a memory, somewhere between his actual childhood and adult life, creating a confusing and terrifying parallel. Like the sound of gunshots , maybe? Peter wishes he knew.

"Come here, baby boy," he whispers. "You're okay." And the tiny boy finally does, slowly crawling out from under the covers and burying his face in Peter's t-shirt.

"Too loud…" he says softly, just as another rumble explodes in the sky. Peter wraps his strong arms around the tiny form, feeling him start to tremble. He cups Neal's little head with a big hand and tilts it up, so he can get a better look at the toddler's face. His blue eyes are wide.

"It's okay, kiddo. See? You're safe with Daddy…" Neal sniffles slightly, and Peter feels him nod against his chest.

"I want to show you something. If you get scared, remember, I'm right here, okay?"

Neal nods once more, and grips Peter's shirt tighter, as the he gets up out of bed with Neal in his arms and walks up to the window.

Bracing the little boy against him with one strong arm, he reaches down and cups a tiny foot in his hand. The toes are freezing. The power must have gone out a while ago, and along with it the heater. He has no idea how they got _that_ cold though.

"Watch, kiddo," Peter says, pointing out the window, at the lightning bolt that cracks through the sky, illuminating both their faces.

"The thunder comes after," he continues, covering one of Neal's ears with a big hand, and gently pressing the other side of his face against his chest to block out the sound. The window panes rattle less this time.

"Not so loud…" Neal says, wriggling his little head out from under Peter's hand and leaning forward to splay his tiny fingers against the window.

"You see, you don't need to be afraid of thunder." Neal peels his eyes away from the window to look back at him.

" They'we tawking to each othew," he tells Peter, eyes wide.

"What?"

"Da light'nin' and da thundew, Petew, watch!" A white streak splits the sky again. Neal covers his ears with his own tiny hands this time as the thunder answer the bolt of light shortly after.

* * *

Peter isn't sure how long they spent, watching the storm. He just knows that at some point he'd climbed back into bed with a deeply sleeping Neal, little thumb in his mouth, draped over his shoulder.

When he wakes again, it's day out, slivers of sunlight peeking through the blinds. The power is back, the clock reading 4:52 am.

Neal is still asleep, on top of him this time, little lips parted into an "o", brown curls sticking up every which way. El would have already snapped about forty pictures if she were here.

The boys make their Saturday a stay at home day; Peter spends the morning on the couch, reviewing ongoing case files, with Neal sprawled out on the living carpet by his feet. By the time Peter finishes reading through the cases, it's nearly noon.

He stretches his slightly stiff limbs, and scrubs his hands over his face; they need to get a better night's sleep tonight.

"Alright, kiddo, you getting hungry for some lunch? How does mac'n'cheese -?" He stops short and stares, transfixed by the perfect, life-like sketches of swirling, stormy skies and bright lightning bolts, covering the floor. Little Neal will never cease to amaze him.

_His little boy._

* * *

_TBC_


	8. Christmas

_**Merry Christmas, guys. Chapter 8 is just to get you into the holiday spirit ;) Thank you for all the feedback and support! Hope you enjoy.**_

_**Christmas**_

* * *

"Neal, buddy, wake up…"

The third time isn't any more efficient than the first. Neal snuffles and buries his face in his pillow, little arms tucked in under him as he lies on his stomach.

Peter chuckles fondly and sits down on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping with his weight. He slides his hands under Neal's arm pits and lifts him into his arms. The toddler frowns a little then opens his eyes halfway.

"Petew," he mumbles sleepily, "Vewy early…"

"Yeah… But do you know what day it is?"

Neal sits up in Peter's lap and rubs his eyes with his little fists. He looks like he's thinking hard about it for a second, then shakes his head, brown curls sticking up every which way and bouncing.

"It's Christmas Eve!"

Neal gives him a very adult-like, unimpressed look.

"Oh c'mon, don't give me that look. It'll be fun, you'll see." With that, he whisks Neal up over his shoulder and heads downstairs; his good mood is contagious and the toddler erupts in a fit of happy giggles.

* * *

Neal's father was never there for Christmas. And stopped being there altogether when he turned 10. They were probably better off that way.

Christmas wasn't much for Neal and his mom, they'd exchange one gift each, decorate a small plastic tree that would stand in the corner of their tiny, shabby living room. The lights stopped working on one side. Childhood Christmas memories weren't worth remembering for Neal Caffrey.

Peter keeps a secure grip on Neal's little hand, and an arm around Elizabeth as they weave through the busy crowds of last minute shoppers downtown. A thick layer of white covers the streets and cars, creating a beautiful holiday scene coupled with the strings of colorful lights that hang between lampposts and across streets.

"Petew, look!" Neal exclaims, wriggling his little hand out of the man's grasp. Peter lunges and lifts him up off his feet as the toddler makes a run for it.

"Neal, I want you to stay close, ok? You want to see something, just ask."

Neal nods, little cheeks pink from the crisp, cold air and eyes as blue as ever against the bright white of the world. He points to the window display of a big department store just ahead.

"Wow. Peter, look at this," El says, peering through the glass of the front window display. It's a lifelike model of a miniature city, little electric trains zipping around on tiny train tracks, little figurines playing in the snow, or circling around an ice skating rink. The rows of little houses are lit with red, blue and green Christmas lights. Peter can't help but smile at the sight.

Neal, nose pressed up against the glass and tiny hands splayed on either side of his face, watches in awe as the miniature people move around the model and fake snowflakes drift down from the ceiling.

Peter watches those blue eyes, bright with innocent wonder. His chest tightens. He knows Neal's childhood memories of Christmas aren't much to talk about. And it strikes him suddenly, that had Neal still been adult, he would have spent today and the next morning alone. Again.

There's a tug on his sleeve, and Peter looks down at Neal's open, innocent face. The little boy gives him a toothy grin. "Dis is fun, Petew."

Then, he bends down and gathers a lumpy ball of snow in his little, gloved hands and tosses it him. El laughs happily and joins in, grabbing Peter by the arm and tugging him over to a fresh pile of snow. He's caught up in the impromptu snow fight, and lets the melancholy slide to the background of his mind.

* * *

El descends the stairs slowly, Satchmo at her heels, feeling accomplished. All the presents are wrapped and hidden.

This year's Christmas will be interesting, new. She and Peter have never shared it with anyone but John, and her mother years before. She couldn't be more excited about this year's new addition to the family.

The living room is silent when she steps in; she takes a moment to admire the sparkling tree by the fireplace, and to hang the tiny stocking where she'd just finished embroidering Neal's name on the mantel alongside hers and Peter's.

She wishes her mom could be here. She'd probably laugh. Elaine had always been sure that Peter and El would have a child someday, not matter how much the two would deny it. She seemed to know it would happen. One way or the other.

El gasps upon entering the kitchen. "What on earth-?" Given the state of the room, her reaction is pretty normal.

Neal and Peter both freeze mid-gesture.

There's flour covering every possible surface, from the counters to the table, sprayed across a few cabinets and _all over_ her two boys.

Peter makes a quick attempt at brushing some off his shirt, but there's still a big patch of it in his hair and on his left cheek. Neal looks like he'd been dunked into the flour bag: his little hands are covered in it, and his brown curls are coated in powdery white.

Elizabeth puts her hands on her hips and stares them down. Trying to keep a straight face is not easy. Peter stifles a giggle, and Neal just grins innocently.

"What _are_ you two doing?"

Peter opens his mouth, but Neal butts in and exclaims happily, "We're baking coooookies, Mommy!"

El doubles over laughing at the sight of the lopsided gingerbread men lying on a cooling tray on the counter.

"They're…wonderful, kiddo."

Next year, she'll take care of the Christmas cookies.

* * *

Peter's wide awake at 7 am on Christmas morning and shivering with excitement.

"Honey…" El mumbles, face stuffed into her pillow, "Why don't you go get Neal up? I'll be down in a minute."

He doesn't need to be asked twice, and bounds out of bed towards the little boy's room.

Somehow during the night, Neal had managed to wriggle down to the foot of the bed, tugging his covers with him, and now, only his little head sticks out of the tangled bundle of sheets. Peter sits down on the edge of the mattress and almost has to fight the urge to bounce.

"Neal, buddy, guess what day it is…"

The toddler shifts a little, but doesn't open his eyes, mouth hanging open and still snoring lightly. Peter bends down next to his ear.

"I think Santa Claus came…"

At this, Neal opens his eyes halfway and yawns. "P'wesents?"

Peter nods gleefully and tugs Neal into his lap. "Do you want to have a look downstairs?" The little boy rubs his eyes quickly and grins up at him, his excitement growing visibly.

Peter will never forget the look of complete and utter surprise in those wide blue eyes when they reach the bottom of the stairs.

The Christmas tree lights are on, creating a soft, festive glow throughout the darkened living room, and making colorful wrapping paper sparkle. The stockings hung on the mantelpiece are overflowing, a giant candy cane sticking out of Neal's.

The little boy looks up at Peter then at the sea of presents under the tree back and forth a couple of times, unsure almost.

Peter gives him a nod and a warm smile, and Neal ambles over to it, just as El descends the stairs with the camera.

"Merry Christmas, hon," she whispers, tilting her head up and placing a kiss on Peter's lips. He wraps an arm around her and they both watch the wide eyed wonder spreading across Neal's little face. The kid's probably never had a Christmas like this in his life…

Peter and El both laugh at the careful and slow way Neal opens each of his presents, mouth dropping open every time.

By 10, El is snoozing on the couch with her head against Peter's shoulder, while he watches Neal play. The little boy pauses suddenly, looking up from the building blocks he's carefully arranging into a beautiful spiral, and gets to his feet. He toddles over to Peter, head reaching just above the agent's knees. Peter laughs quietly and he climbs onto his lap.

"I y'ove you, Daddy…" he whispers, wrapping his little arms around Peter's neck. He hugs the little boy close, plastering a smile on his face and blinking away the tears suddenly blurring his vision.

"I love you too, buddy. Always. "

* * *

_TBC_


	9. Week 3

_**Another early chapter, where Peter and El are still getting to know tiny Neal. I hope you had wonderful holidays. Thank you so much for all the reviews, favorites, follows and to those who just dropped by. Hope you enjoy.**_

_**Week 3**_

* * *

It's Neal's first day of pre-school. And Peter can't tell which of them is more nervous; Neal, or him. El is still ridiculously excited about the outfit she picked out for the little guy: tiny brown shoes, miniature jeans, and a blue checkered shirt that makes Neal's eyes so bright and big that Peter has a hard time looking into them for too long. And then there's the puppy dog socks.

"Look at you," she coos, placing a kiss on his little cheek and leaving a lipstick stain there. Neal cocks one eyebrow and shoots Peter what he probably intended to be a withering glare, but ends up looking more like a grumpy kitten.

"I've got to run, boys. Behave," she tells Peter, and to Neal, "Go get'em, tiger."

Peter sighs. He wasn't too keen on the idea of signing Neal up for daycare. El had decided in the end. And she was probably right; their neighbors, seeing them more and more often with a tiny boy tagging along, started giving them weird looks. Eventually Diana and Jones suggested the pre-school idea to Elizabeth. Besides, they couldn't keep taking time off work to watch their new, fun-sized addition to the household, and Peter didn't feel comfortable leaving Neal with some random babysitter.

A few days ago, Mozzie had jokingly called him a mother hen. Peter had politely kicked him out. Not just for the teasing. Mostly for the little demonstration 'Unka Mawzzie' had given Neal of how to unlock all the rooms in the house with parts of one of his disassembled toy trucks.

"I wanna go to work, Petew," Neal says seriously, once El's safely out of earshot, shoving his curls out of his eyes with a tiny hand.

"I know you do, bud," Peter replies as he takes Neal's little hand in his and guides him out to the car. "But I think the kind of work we used to do together has become a little… disproportionate to your current size."

The toddler huffs, but lets Peter buckle him into his car seat without a fuss.

He's silent for nearly the whole of the drive. Peter keeps shooting glances in the rearview mirror; Neal's little forehead is creased into a worried line as he stares out the window at the busy streets flitting by, tiny legs swinging absently.

"You okay, kiddo?" Peter finally asks. All he gets in reply is a non-committal uh hum.

The pre-school is situated in a nice part of the city. It's long, flat building, surrounded by trees and green grass.

"Here we are."

Peter gets Neal out of his car seat, grabbing his Spiderman backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He is not going to think about how he must look, in his dark grey suit, badge at his belt, wearing a tot-sized superhero backpack. When he takes the Neal's hand in his, the little fingers grip his just the slightest bit tighter.

Saying goodbye isn't as much of a struggle as he thought it would be, even though Neal does not look like a happy camper and his big, blue eyes look a little wet. He doesn't throw a tantrum or cry, just takes the tiny backpack from Peter and stands there, peering up at him.

Peter doesn't know why or even what he's doing, but he gets down on knees, right there in his suit, and holds his arms out. Neal blinks at him, then shuffles over and buries his face in Peter's shirt, little arms coming to wrap themselves around the agent's neck.

"I'll see you soon, okay? The day will be over before you know it." With that he gets up, ruffling Neal's hair and leaves.

* * *

Peter is two hours and thirty-three minutes late picking Neal up.

He curses, slamming a fist down on the steering wheel and willing the damn traffic to move faster. They'd made an important breakthrough in a major art museum theft case that afternoon and added two prime suspects to the list. Interrogations had gone on for hours. He'd thought about calling El, but remembered she'd only be available after 7 pm.

He pulls into the parking lot, and jogs into the school. The hallway is dimly lit, but at the end of it he makes out the form on Neal's young teacher, Ms. Winters, sitting next to the little boy on a bench outside the classroom.

"Mr. Burke," she greets. She doesn't look mad. Just pained, for some reason... She turns to Neal, who is staring down at his feet, brown curls obscuring his face. "Neal, your daddy's here…"

He shimmies off the bench and takes the hand Peter offers him, but doesn't look at him. Peter's heart sinks as a thought occurs to him. He thanks Ms. Winters, and guides Neal back out to the car.

Neal waits patiently by the back seat door, waiting for Peter to put him back in his car seat. Instead, the agent gently tugs the little bag off his shoulders, tosses it into the car, stoops and gathers Neal up in his arms. The little boy squirms, then, when he realizes their current physical power imbalance, hides his face in his hands instead.

"What's wrong? C'mon, talk to me," Peter says, gently prying Neal's tiny hands away. A single tear slides down the little boy's cheek.

"Hey, kiddo…" Peter gently brushes the tear away with his thumb.

Neal sniffles. "I thought… You didn't want me. Dat's why you forgot."

Ever so slightly, Peter's breath hitches in his chest. Not want him? God, kid. If only you knew.

"Never. Neal, you hear me? I'm never leaving you. Why would you think that?" The answer comes to him on its own. It's not so surprising after all, with all the goodbyes Neal has had to live through…

Peter finds himself crushing Neal tightly against his chest in a slightly desperate hug. He wishes he never had to let go. How can he show this precious little guy he's never going to?

"Petew…" Neal mumbles into his shoulder after a few seconds. "You squishing me…"

Peter chuckles, trying to keep the half-sob out of the end of it, frees Neal from his embrace and tucks him into his car seat.

"I wanna try it again, tomorrow, Petew. O'tay?"

"Of course, bud. A fresh start."

* * *

_TBC_


	10. Week 40

**_It's been a while! Sorry about that... But here is 10. This one is kind of angsty. Neal is still 3. Thanks so much for all the support guys, it means a lot! Hope you enjoy..._**

**_Week 40 _**

* * *

"Petew..?"

It's really cold. Like someone had left the window open all night, even though it's December in New York and there's snow on the ground. Neal turns his head, tries to roll over. He's stuck.

He struggles a bit, panic rising, then a cry is torn from his lips, as the movement sends a sharp bolt of pain through his brain.

"Daddy?" He tries again, his voice sounding odd, muffled to his own ears.

He opens his eyes.

It's like the world has fallen away before him. The front window of the Taurus is smashed in, there's glass in his lap. Bloodied glass. Smoke and freezing air filter in from the outside, as well as a cacophony of undecipherable noises. So loud… Neal whimpers; he can't look down, the seatbelt is cutting into his throat. His head hurts.

He turns his head a little, squeezing his eyes shut. It takes a moment for the dizziness to pass. He pries his eyes open again.

Blood. Everywhere.

Splattered across the dash. Staining the driver's knees. Hands. Face. _Peter. _

"_DADDY_!"

* * *

_10 hours earlier_

"Neal? C'mon, kiddo! Up and at'em!" Peter calls from the bathroom, straightening his tie in the mirror. El leans against the doorway, giving him a fond smile.

"You'd think he was a teenager already. Impossible to get him up. You'd better go in, hon."

Peter sighs, finishing adjusting his suit and heads to Neal's room, placing a swift kiss on El's lips on the way out. She stops him briefly.

"I can't pick Neal up today. Could you please?"

Peter runs a hand over his face. Things haven't been going too smoothly at work. A major art theft case; they'd been chasing the suspect, Grant Walker, for a couple weeks now, and the guy was getting agitated. Violent. Jones had been roughed up by some of his men. Nothing too serious, but Peter had a feeling they'd cut it close that time. Going to get Neal coming straight from work just didn't seem wise right now.

"I know things at work are tough… I could always call Mozzie?"

"No, it's fine, hon. I'll get him."

El smirks. But hey, he'd rather not have Uncle Moz giving Neal a tour of any more museum security camera blind spots.

He pads quietly into the darkened bedroom and pulls one of the blinds open. Neal's small arm is draped over the edge of the bed, his little body tangled up in the sheets. There's a muffled, sleepy giggle from under the mass of covers and Peter smiles as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Neal… Time to get up, bud."

Without warning, the toddler jumps up, nearly clipping Peter on the chin and wraps his arms around his neck.

"Good mo'wning!" he says cheerfully, giving the agent a fond hug. Peter's heart warms, and he returns the squeeze, standing up and heading out of the room.

"Boy, you're getting big, kiddo!"

Neal leans back, blue eyes wide, brown curls sticking up on one side. "Too heavy?"

Peter hugs him closer, burying his face in the little neck. He smells of clean laundry. "You'll never be too heavy for me."

Neal giggles, and squirms out of Peter's hold. Then he bolts down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Daddy, Daddy! I want pan't'akes! …Please!"

El laughs as she joins them in the kitchen. "Good morning, young man. How's my boy?" He gives her warm, leg hug, then goes to wake Satchmo up.

"He's in a good mood," she chuckles, helping Peter assemble the ingredients for pancake batter. Peter smiles too, allowing himself to get caught up in their cheerful, morning routine, and lets the nagging unease slip to the background of his mind.

* * *

"What do you mean he 'got away'?!"

Peter slams a fist down onto his desk, sending pens and other small objects scattering. Outside the glass surrounding his office, heads in the bullpen turn. He glares, andthey look away.

"Boss," Jones' voice is quiet. He turns to face him, finally. There's still a dark bruise lingering under his left eye; his arm is in a sling. "He shot at Diana."

Peter glances over at Diana for the first time since they walked in. She hasn't said a word. He notices it now: the bloody rip in the shoulder of her jacket.

He curses under his breath. "I want a BOLO out on this guy. _Now._ And everything we've got on this son of a bitch so we can book him for good this time."

Jones and Diana nod and file out of the office.

"Di," Peter calls her back. Her eyes are red when she looks up. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. We'll bring him down, I promise."

She nods, offering him a meek smile and closes the door after her.

Peter blows out a long sigh, running his hands through his hair. They could have caught him; they'd been so close. But now, Walker had pulled a gun one of his agents. Peter is not going to let that one slide.

A quick glance at his watch tells him if he doesn't get going he'll be late picking Neal up.

* * *

"Daddy! Daddy! Guess what? Today we painted, an' I did lots of big ones, d'ere in my backpack! I wanna show you. Daddy? Daddy? Listen to me…" Neal whines from the back, kicking his legs against the passenger seat.

Peter reaches back and stops his leg mid-gesture. "What did I say about shoes on the seats?"

"Shoes a'we dirty. Nobody likes dirty shoes on da seat."

Peter chuckles, giving Neal's ankle a squeeze. "Exactly. You'll show me those paintings when you get home, okay?"

"Yeah. I'm hungry!"

"Almost home, bud. You can have a snack there."

Neal hums in agreement as his phone rings. "Burke."

"Boss! We've got a hit on Walker—"

Neither of them sees the black SUV barreling towards their right. The impact sprays shards of glass and metal over both Neal and Peter as the car spins out of control. And into oncoming traffic. In a chaos of screeching tires and blaring horns, the Taurus skids to a stop by the sidewalk, the hood steaming. Neither of the two passengers moving.

. . . . . . . . . .

"DADDY!"

Peter cracks his eyelids, squinting through the awful pain in the right side of his skull. Neal's voice… Where the hell is it coming from? He leans forward, gripping his head in his hands waiting for a wave of dizziness and nausea to pass.

"Daddy…" A sob this time.

Peter opens his eyes fully and panic hits him as he takes in the shattered windshield, the dent in the passenger door… the blood, all over his hands. He twists his head back, which _hurts_ like hell, and eyes fall on Neal, still securely strapped into his car seat. There's bloody gash running down his forehead.

The little boy holds out his arms, sobbing. "Daddy…"

"It's okay, kiddo. Just hang on, I'm gonna…come get you." Peter struggles frantically with his seatbelt, finally getting it unlocked, and clambers into the backseat.

Neal is still shaking and shuddering and reaches out for Peter's sleeve, clutching it desperately in his tiny hand. Peter fumbles with the clasps of the car seat with shaking hands and finally pulls his boy out, holding him close to his chest, rocking him.

"Shhh. It's okay. Don't cry."

The loud crack of a gunshot cuts through the air suddenly, sending Peter diving down into the foot space between the seats, wrapping both arms around Neal's tiny form. Then another. And another. A bullet shatters the only window that had remained intact during the crash, sending glass raining down on them.

Then Walker's icy voice fills his ears. "Agent Burke. Nice to see you again."

Peter covers Neal as best as he can and looks up to find the barrel of a gun shoved in his face. Neal wails.

"Now who have we here? Oh, this is going to be so much more fun than I thought."

A last gunshot goes off.

Peter stares as Grant slides down the side of the car into a crumpled heap on the sidewalk, dead.

He manages to pull him and Neal out of the car before sinking to his knees on the pavement. He vaguely registers Diana and Jones running towards them, followed by two paramedics. Neal clings to him, shivering.

"I've got you, baby boy…" Peter whispers against the top of his tiny head, "I've got you."

* * *

_TBC_


	11. Week 40, Part 2

_**The aftermath of Week 40... Thank you so much for all the reviews, favorites and follows, guys; it means so much. This one is a bit short. Hope you still enjoy.**_

_**Week 42**_

* * *

Peter wipes a shaking hand down the thigh of his pants, leaving a smear of red there. Smoke stings his nostrils, the broken glass in his lap chimes eerily as he shifts. There's so much blood everywhere.

God. He's still in the car. Tires screeching. Smashed front windshield. Smoke; cold air. _NEAL_.

Neal is still in the car.

Peter climbs clumsily into the backseat; the seatbelt gets stuck around his right shoulder, jarring it painfully. He can see the little legs. They're not kicking the front seat anymore, just hanging limply. One tiny hand draped over the side of the car seat, palm up. Unmoving.

Peter looks up, searching the tiny face.

The blue eyes are open, staring straight ahead. Blank. And void of any light. Any life. Anything to show that this tiny, sweet little boy he came to call his son is still there with him.

Gone.

Peter screams.

.

.

.

.

"Peter... Peter! Wake up!"

Someone is shaking him. A familiar, warm hand.

"Peter, you're dreaming…"

He opens his eyes to El's worried face, backlit by the bedside lamp on her side. "You okay, hon?" she cups a hand to his cheek.

Peter scans the room, then his eyes fall on the little, little person sleeping between them, tiny lips parted, one arm draped over Peter's chest. Neal hasn't stirred through any of their conversation. Peter just stares for a few minutes, at the slow rise and fall of that tiny chest, and El lets him.

Finally, he looks up.

"I'm sorry, hon. I just…"

She leans forward and places a kiss on his forehead. "Neal is okay… You're okay. And I love you."

"I love you too," Peter murmurs, reaching for her hand. She takes it, switches off the light, and they both settle down again on either side of their little boy, each trying to make themself believe that everything really is going to be alright.

* * *

"Boss? You okay?"

Peter snaps out of his daze and peers up at up at Diana, who's holding a thick manila folder out to him.

He takes it, "Uh… yeah. I'm fine."

She sits down in the chair in front of his desk and watches him intently for a few seconds. Peter sighs.

"Had a rough night. That's it."

"Nightmares?"

"It's no big deal, Di."

"Yes. It is." A pained look crosses her face. "I know how you feel about Neal, Peter. How you felt about him before. But the truth is: you can't protect him from everything. You couldn't before; you can't now. It _was not_ your fault. It's what's going to happen in our line of work…"

Peter runs a hand over his face. She's right. And those words sound vaguely familiar. His own, back from when Diana was just a rookie, and her first partner had taken a bullet to the chest and not made it.

He reaches across the desk for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Neal is lucky to have you and El. He'll be just fine."

* * *

"I'm home," Peter calls from the hallway. Satchmo comes trotting up and nuzzles his right knee.

"El?"

He makes his way into the living room. Soft crying floats down from the stairs, and he takes them two by two. El is standing in Neal's darkened room, holding him to her and rocking him as he cries.

"Hon?"

She turns and gives him a sad smile. "He was taking a nap and had a bad dream… Baby, look who's home. Daddy's home."

Neal lifts his head off El's shoulder, tears streaking his little cheeks and holds his arms out to Peter.

"Hey, kiddo," Peter wraps both arms around him. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Neal sniffles and nods, tucking his head under Peter's chin.

"It was loud," he mumbles into Peter's shirt. "An' I couldn't find you… An' d'ere was a w'eally mean man…" Neal's breath hitches and he holds onto Peter tighter.

"He can't come near you anymore, ok, buddy? Ever."

Neal leans back, peering up at Peter, blue eyes wide and so full of trust. "You got da bad guy?"

"I did. I want you to know that you're safe. Mommy and I will make sure of that, ok?"

"O't'ay…" Neal leans forward and gives him a tight neck hug. Peter feels a little of the deep tension in his shoulders bleed away. He blinks fiercely and hangs onto his little boy tight.

. . . . . . . . . .

Neal had cheered up a little after that, snuggling up next to El as they all piled onto the couch to watch the Avengers. For the fifth time.

But at 3 am almost on the dot, Peter is awakened, much like every night lately, by the soft sobbing coming from the hallway, then two little hands are tugging on his arm. He sits up in bed and pulls Neal up against his chest and instantly, the small, tear soaked face is pressed into his neck.

"Neal?" El mumbles, dragging a hand out from under the covers to rub his little back briefly. "It's okay... Daddy's got you."

Peter presses his lips to the top of Neal's little head and rocks him in a soothing, gentle rhythm, until he quiets, sticking a little thumb into his mouth.

"Daddy?" he whispers, blinking sleepily up at Peter. "Are we o't'ay?"

"We will be. I promise."

* * *

_TBC_


	12. Week 4

_**Hello all… I am so sorry you had to wait so long for an update. All your great support and feedback on last chapter means so much! I hope you'll still enjoy after such a long time. I'm not too confident about this one (too much fluff...?), so feel free to let me know what you think. Inspired by a prompt from Druuu. **_

_**Week 4**_

* * *

The file spread out on the coffee table momentarily forgotten, Peter stares glumly out onto the wet, gray street as a fresh sheet of rain spatters across the living room window. The weather has been like this for three days now, and they've long since run out of rainy day distractions for Neal. He'd been begging to go to the park since he got home from daycare on Thursday.

"Hon? Have you seen Neal?" El's voice floats down the stairs. "He was here just a while ago…" the end of the sentence trails off.

Peter pulls his eyes away from the window and takes a moment to scan the living room and the kitchen, off to the left. No Neal. Or Satch, for that matter. Peter frowns and jogs upstairs, into the little boy's room.

"Neal?"

"I already checked," El appears next to him, worry creasing her brow.

"Hey…" Peter places a kiss on her forehead, "He can't be far. He's probably just hiding."

He heads back downstairs, checking underneath the kitchen table, and in Neal's favorite hiding spot, the pantry. Still no tiny conman. Peter takes a deep breath. He's not going to panic over this.

As he passes the back door, there's a loud clattering sound, and Satchmo bursts through the doggy door, slipping and sliding across the hardwood floor. He smacks into Peter's legs, nearly knocking him over. And he's soaking wet.

"Satchmo!" Peter scolds, pushing the dog back towards the door. Satchmo stubbornly sits down on the floor and whines.

Peter narrows his eyes at the lab. "What is it?"

Satch nuzzles Peter's hand, then gets behind him and gives the back of his knees a shove with his wet nose.

"Okay, okay. Outside? Is that what you want me to see?"

The golden lab barks once. Then something dawns on Peter, and he yanks the backdoor open. His heart sinks at the sight he's met with.

"Neal?!"

Huge blue eyes look up into his, droplets of rain clinging to his long eyelashes. The tot is completely drenched, clad only in a t-shirt, jeans and socks.

"Jesus…" Peter mutters under his breath, and lifts Neal into his arms, soaking the front of his own t-shirt. "You okay, kiddo?" he smoothes Neal's wet curls back out of his eyes and kicks the door shut behind him.

Neal sniffles. "I'm sowwy, Petew!" he stammers, squirming, or shivering in Peter's hold. He starts to cry, teeth chattering. "I just wanted to p'way outside with Satchmo!"

Peter jogs back upstairs and sets Neal on the counter in their bathroom.

"Oh, baby, what happened?" El hurries in at the sound of the little voice.

"I just wanted to p'way outside!" Neal sobs. Peter shushes him soothingly and starts pulling off his wet clothes. "It's okay, buddy, no one's mad at you." El gets Neal's Spiderman pajamas from his room while Peter wraps the little guy in a towel.

"How did you even get out there?" Peter asks incredulously.

"Satchmo's door," Neal says quietly, sniffling. Peter hands him to El so she can get him into his pajamas. Neal peers over her shoulder at Peter, all huge blue puppy dog eyes that make Peter's heart melt. Jesus.

"Da door was too high…" he mumbles, looking so let down that Peter feels a smile creep to his lips. He reaches over and ruffles Neal's still damp hair.

"I was bigger before… I think," Neal says resignedly as El deposits him on the floor.

"Yeah… Sorry, kiddo. You're just going to have to ask now, okay?"

A brief image of Neal flashes through his mind. Feet up on his desk at the Bureau, hundred megawatt grin lighting up his face. He misses having to keep up with that brilliant mind. He sighs as he watches his tiny Neal slink out of the bedroom. El's hand settles on his shoulder.

"And I thought 30 year old Neal was hard to keep up with." Peter vaguely wonders why she looks so pained.

* * *

He wakes briefly in the middle of the night, rolling over to drape an arm over Elizabeth's stomach, then out of the corner of his eye sees she's wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He props himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes.

"Hon?"

She turns her head on the pillow to look at him, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Was just thinking…"

"Just thinking?" Peter raises an eyebrow and glances past her at the alarm clock on her nightstand, "At two-thirty in the morning?"

She rolls over into his chest, fitting her head under his chin. He threads her fingers through her hair, hand coming to rest against the nape of her neck. "You going to tell me what's really going on?"

She sighs into his shirt. "Neal." That's a heavy answer in itself. Peter pulls back a little to get a better look at her face.

"It's just…" she stops, thinking, "Will we ever get _Neal_ back?"

Peter finds it hard to breathe for a second. He misses his older Neal. So much. But this whole thing had been so… impossible. Somehow, he'd pushed that thought away.

"I don't know," he whispers. He wishes he knew more. Something. Anything. He loves this tiny version of his CI so much it hurts. But _w__hy doesn't he know? _El's hand comes to rest against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, babe," she says softly. "It's late. And I know you can't possibly know why or how this all came to be…" She sighs. "Maybe it happened for a reason."

She places a kiss on his lips then settles back down under the covers, head against his shoulder, leaving him staring at the wall in front of him.

_For what reason?_

* * *

They've had this planned for a while. Still, as Peter sets the large box in the middle of the living room floor the next morning, he can't help the excitement building up all over again. Childish excitement. Neal sure does bring up things in him he thought he'd lost a while ago.

"Ok, you can come on out now."

El appears in the doorway, holding Neal's little hand in hers. He peers carefully into the living room from behind her leg.

Peter nods to the box. "Go ahead, buddy, it's all yours."

Neal lets go of El's hand, going to sit in front of the box, facing the couch. He eyes it warily, little hands splayed across the top, keeping it at arm's length. He's thinking. Peter and El watch him in silence, working to keep the smiles off their faces. Finally Neal looks up and raises an eyebrow at them.

"A'we you… conning me?"

El bursts out laughing and Peter gets down on the floor by Neal, grinning. "No, we are not _conning_ you. C'mon, open it up."

Neal turns his attention back to the box. He sighs, then leans forward, tongue sticking out in concentration and slowly unfolds the cardboard flaps.

A tiny, chocolate brown head with floppy ears pops up, bumping noses with Neal. The puppy has huge blue eyes, eerily mirroring the little boy's own. Neal looks dumbfounded for all of ten seconds, then cracks a bright smile, reaching into the box and pulling the puppy out. It wags its tail happily, shaking with excitement as it climbs up Neal's t-shirt, trying to lick all of his little face at once. Neal giggles happily, cuddling the puppy close.

Satchmo trots into the room, nails clicking on the hardwood floor, to inspect the commotion. He sticks his nose close to the puppy's, sniffs once, then huffs disappointedly, going to flop down by El's legs, dropping his head to the carpet with a soft thump. She reaches down and scratches his ears affectionately.

"Oh, don't you feel left out. You're still our big ole boy and we love you to pieces." Satchmo barks in agreement, and tilts his head up to nuzzle her hand.

Neal turns to Peter, still holding the puppy close to his little chest. His eyes are bright and wide. "Wow…" he whispers, awestruck. "Dis is da best ever!."

Peter clears his throat before speaking, reaching out to ruffle Neal's wayward curls. "Do you have a name for him?"

Neal wrinkles his nose and rests his little chin lightly on top of the puppy's head. "W-w'eese…" he says finally, looking pleased with himself.

Peter cocks an eyebrow. "Reese?"

Neal nods and giggles mischievously. Peter knows exactly where Neal got that name from, and allows himself four seconds of internal, childish glee about the prospect of telling a puppy named after his boss to sit and roll over.

Neal sets Reese on the floor, and the puppy bumbles over to sniff Satchmo, who lets him come but eyes the little ball of fur suspiciously. Neal gives Peter a grin that makes his heart melt and wraps his arms around his neck, brown curls tickling Peter's chin.

"I have a best friend now!" Neal says happily.

Peter hugs him closer. And then, strangely, the reason dawns on him. The reason for all _this_, no matter how impossible.

This is a childhood that isn't filled with loss and pain and goodbyes. This is Neal getting a second chance.

* * *

_TBC_


End file.
